Authors: Frederic Lindsay
What
was
it
John
Merchant
had
said? – Anything
I
know
about
you,
I
learned
from
your
brother.
Malcolm
flushed
a
deeper
red.
'It
doesn't
matter
where
he
was
found,
does
it?'
he
asked,
avoiding
Murray's
glance
.
'Who
wants
to
talk
about
a
murder?
We're
supposed
to
be
having
dinner,
for
God's
sake!'
'According
to
Billy
Shanks,'
Irene
said,
raising
her
voice
to
be
heard,
'it's
exactly
a
hundred
years
ago
since
Jack
the
Ripper
committed
his
first
murder –
that
was
in
Whitechapel,
you
know – in
London.
It's
exactly
a
hundred
years
ago –'
'It's
not,'
Malcolm
said.
'If
we
must
talk
about
it,
at
least
get
it
right
.
'
Mother
gave
Murray,
who
had
unconsciously
eased
his
chair
back
again,
a
little
tap
so
that
he
moved
forward.
She
laid
down
her
own
plate
and
sat
down.
As
she
did
so,
Murray
caught
in
her
glance
at
Irene
a
shadow
of
confusion.
It
was
like
a
premonition
of
the
slackening
and
bewilderment
of
the
mind
which
comes
with
senility.
Despite
her
age,
the
possibility
of
such
a
thing
for
her
had
never
occurred
to
him
until
that
exact
moment.
'I
waited
a
long
time
for
that
piano,'
she
said
inconsequentially.
It
was
Irene
who
responded.
'When
did
you
buy
it?'
she
asked.
There
was
a
silence
which
went
on
too
long
and
then
lengthened
again
as
not
one
of
them
was
quick-witted
enough
to
fill
it with
an
answer.
'Was
it
after
Malcolm's
father
died?'
she
wondered
pleasantly.
'Yes,
after,'
the
old
lady
said.
'Perhaps
he
wasn't
fond
of
music?'
'None
of
us
play
the
piano,'
Murray
heard
himself
say.
'What
does
it
matter?'
'I
wanted
it
for
Malcolm,'
Mother
said.
'But
when
I
got
old
enough
to
learn,
I
hated
the
lessons,'
Malcolm
said.
Unexpectedly
he
smiled,
as
if
the
memory
had
put
him
into
a
better
humour.
They
talked
then
about
other
things.
As
Murray
ate,
he
kept
looking
at
his
sister-in-law
and
glancing
away.
He
would
have
been
ashamed
to
have
it
seem
he
was
envious
of
his
brother.
She
had
dark
hair
that
shone;
she
must
be
very
healthy,
only
the
hair
of
the
well
and
the
young
glistened
like
that;
he
wondered
what
it
would
feel
like
under
his
hand.
He
could
hardly
believe
that
she
was
sitting
opposite
him,
or
in
her
reason
for
being
there.
She
was
married
to
his
brother,
who
had
met
her
in
London,
where
she
had
been
a
secretary,
something
like
that.
Malcolm
had
gone
on
holiday
and
had
come
back
with
her;
then
they
were
married.
Her
mother
and
father
were
dead.
She
had
no
relatives.
It
had
not
been
convenient
for
any
of
her
friends
to
come
up
for
the
wedding.
He
realised
with
a
kind
of
shock
that
he
knew
nothing
of
her
background,
and
yet
it
was
his
daily
business
to
find
out
such
things
about
strangers.
Malcolm
would
know,
he
supposed
.
It
did
not
seem
possible
that
people
could
fall
in
love
and
marry
without
offering
each
other
the
past
to
share;
yet
he
was
not
sure.
He
found
that
he
was
looking
at
her
breasts,
and
when
he
raised
his
eyes
she
was
smiling.
As
Mother
got
up
to
fetch
the
next
course,
little
bowls
of
sweet
pudding,
Irene
said,
'Of
course,
Polly
Nicholls
–
that
was
the
name.
I've
been
sitting
trying
to
remember.'
'Let
it
rest,'
Malcolm
said.
'Something
in
Billy's
column
yesterday,'
Murray
guessed.
'The
one
Mother
and
I
haven't
read.'
'Clever.'
Irene
held
out
her
hand
to
him
across
the
table
as
if
inviting
him
to
touch
her.
'Polly
Nicholls
.
..'
It wasn't
difficult
to
take
the
next
step.
'The Ripper's
first
victim.'
'In
Whitechapel
a
hundred
years
ago.
A
prostitute,'
she
said.
'And
not
glamorous
at
all.
She
was
a
tiny
woman,
and
five
of
her
front
teeth
had
been
knocked
out
in
a
fight.
When
they
make
a
film
of
it,
the
women
don't
look
anything
like
that.'
'I
don't
understand,'
Mother
said.
'A
film
of
what?'